


your hands are cold and aching still

by CallMeBombshell



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes to wearing gloves, even in the sweltering heat of summer because it’s so much better than seeing the way people flinch away from him, the way they back away, wary, at the sight of his busted, knobbly knuckles and the cris-crossing twists of white scar tissue across the backs of his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hands are cold and aching still

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so [this conversation](http://latenightcuppa.tumblr.com/post/63160508262/redundantthinking-latenightcuppa-deep) happened, starting with me and sam talking about jason todd having scars everywhere, and then other people pitched in, and the next thing i knew i was writing this.

He takes to wearing gloves, even in the sweltering heat of summer because it’s so much better than seeing the way people flinch away from him, the way they back away, wary, at the sight of his busted, knobbly knuckles and the cris-crossing twists of white scar tissue across the backs of his hands.

But sometimes he forgets, sometimes it’s nearly four in the morning at the end of a hard patrol and he’s had to take his gloves off because there’s blood on them, to much to be explained away.

And all he wants is a cup of coffee, just something hot and caffeinated to hold him up until he can get home and crash on his couch.

But the woman at the counter, bags under her eyes and her hair dull and limp, stares at him like she’s thinking of turning him away before he can even order, her eyes never moving up from his hands, and he can’t even shove them in his pockets because he’s still wearing his patrol clothes and his pockets are full of guns and knives.

And it’s been a rough night, okay, two gang fights and a minor arms deal he’d had to bust. He’s been shot at and punched and kicked and had a knife driven down too close to his kidneys for comfort; the body armor meant it hadn’t pierced to his skin, but there’s going to be a wicked bruise in the morning.

And it’s not too much, he thinks, to just ask for a fucking cup of black coffee, okay, but this woman is looking at him like his hands are the greatest sin of the world, and Jason just can’t fucking deal with this shit tonight.

"Forget it," he mutters, and turns away; he ignores the way he can hear the woman sighs in relief, happy that he’s walking away.

He stops on the sidewalk and closes his eyes, tilts his head back and sighs. His fingers are twitching for a cigarette, itching for the click and the flame and the burn of the cherry, but he stopped smoking years ago; he hasn’t got any on him, not even stashed away, and it seems like such a monumental effort to go out and find some now.

It’s a mark of how tired he is that he doesn’t even hear the man come up until he’s right beside him, a dark shape moving slowly in his periphery. Jason turns his head slightly as the man approaches, watching him with one eye. The man is older, his face weathered and weary, but he watches jason with clear eyes, not hint of trepidation on his face as he comes closer.

"Your coffee," the man says, stopping beside jason and holding out a steaming paper cup. 

Jason eyes is warily, but stretches out a hand to take it. “Thanks.”

"You looked like you could use it," the man says, nodding. "I know the way the cold gets into you," he goes on. "Into your hands."

Jason tenses, but the man only looks at him with… it’s not pity, not really, but maybe something more like sympathy.

"I know a soldier when I see one," the man says gently. "I know about marks like that." 

And he pulls up his sleeve, revealing a thick, twisting rope of of scar, wrapping around his arm and down the back of his hand. Jason stares at it, the way it’s healed badly, the skin pulling unevenly in places. It looks like it hurts.

"Not everyone understands the way our wounds shape us," the man says softly, giving Jason a sad smile. "but I do. And I am sorry that one as young as you must suffer the same way this old man does."

Jason opens his mouth, but his mouth is dry, his throat tight, and he can find no words. The man doesn’t seem to need them anyway; he just gives Jason an understanding look, reaching across to gently rest his palm against the back of Jason’s hand.

And then he’s gone, ambling down the sidewalk and into the shadows before Jason can say anything.

The coffee is hot in his hand, the warmth bleeding into his skin, easing the ache in his fingers that he hadn’t even realised was there. He takes a cautious sip, flexing his free hand, and stares down at his scars.

For the first time that night, he doesn’t feel the need to hide them.


End file.
